Bend and Break
by summonerskye
Summary: Two scenes from the final summer at the Burrow. Bill and Fleur's wedding: the night before, and the night after.
1. Bending

**Bend and Break**

by Summoner Skye

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and everything related is copyright by JK Rowling, Warner Brothers, and other scary corporations that I really would rather not get involved with.

**Part 1: Bending**

Hermione Granger: Harry Potter's best friend, resident Hogwarts genius, Ron Weasley's girlfriend?

It wasn't a novel idea. It was one that had raced around her head for ages. When unchecked, the thought usually flowered into an elaborate plot that culminated in screaming babies and… Well, the screaming babies said it all.

But lying here a month into what really may not turn out to be just another summer holiday, in a borrowed bed with the Burrow slowly creaking over her head, Hermione strongly doubted that she'd ever get close to even the possibility of adding to the Weasley gene pool.

Not that that was what she wanted. Hermione would be content with merely a kind word or two here or there, or (and she felt some disgust at thinking this, but it was true) another moment like that at the funeral, when all the stupidity of the year had been forgotten and Ron had simply been there for her. Now, apparently, all the stupidity was being brought back up, and Hermione once again found herself the butt of jokes about McClaggen and silly arguments over the meal tables. This was countered with substantial use of the words "Lavender" and "snog" and a new found ability to hold her tears until she had reached the small room she shared with Ginny.

Ginny, of course, had figured out within days what was going on and had roundly attacked Ron and provided Hermione with a shoulder to cry on. It was mildly annoying keeping quarters with someone as intuitive as Ginny when you can't control your emotions as well as you would like, mused Hermione. But, better than Lavender and Parvati.

Hermione rolled over in bed, pulling the covers tight around her chin. Ginny was sitting at her small desk, hair pinned up on the top of her head. Her wand stuck out of the front of her baggy, flowered pyjamas. Ministry regulations had been cast aside, and it was ready to be used.

Like Hermione's. Hers lay on the nightstand, never more than an arms length away. Also ready, but legally. Hermione was well into her seventeenth year, an adult by wizarding standards and a child by Muggle. But Hermione had chosen to live by the wizarding train of thought, and it was with that in mind that she had Apparated home to tell her parents she'd be spending another summer away from home. She hadn't told them it may be longer than that.

So here she was, once again sleeping on a conjured bed in Ginny's small room, in a very different household than the one she remembered. It was a strange mixture of emotions. The heaviness of Dumbledore's… (Hermione felt her eyes fill with tears) was countered with the preparations for Bill and Fleur's hasty wedding, and the simple joy that they were all alive.

"Hermione…"

Hermione hastily blinked the tears out of her eyes.

Ginny had turned towards her and was regarding her with that expression of motherly concern that Hermione had learned so well to recognize.

"You know, my bat bogey hex _is_ rather good."

Hermione managed a laugh, though it came out small and strangled. It had been a good guess. "That's not it."

Ginny stiffened. If it wasn't Ron, then there was only one other thing it would be. And still, nearly a month after the fact, that wound still gave sharp pains when probed. There was a moment of silence. Low voices drifted up the stairwell, familiar voices Hermione knew she woundn't see in the Burrow come dawn. Despite her status as an adult, she still wasn't privy to Order information. She didn't know if Harry was.

A loud snore sounded from somewhere nearby. The clock ticked. Hermione glanced at it, the acute angles of the hands telling the late hour.

Ginny stifled a yawn. "Shit." she said "Fleur will kill us if we're not awake tomorrow."

The girls groaned. Ginny flopped down on her bed and found her way beneath the comforter.

The last three weeks had been a flurry of activity, as Bill and Fleur's wedding was rushed into. Fleur's mother (The Delacours had taken up residence in Ottery St. Catchpole, after a short stay at the Burrow. No one had appreciated staying with a whole family of those women, the men included.) had been appalled at the rushing of the ceremony, but given the circumstances they really didn't have a choice.

Hermione felt a month was more than enough time to simply get two people married, but Mrs. Weasley and Mme Delacour wanted to make the most of the union of their eldest children. Reception, cake, music, the works. Including bridesmaids.

Hermione groaned again, rolling to face the wall. Ginny giggled halfheartedly. "Good night, Hermione." Then something whispered under her breath, and the light was gone.

A/N: I'm working on something original now, and this was just an exersize to release some pent up energy after rereading HBP three times in a row. I was planning on doing a whole fic of the wedding, but all I got out were two scenes. This one, and one the night after the wedding (involving Ron, Hermione and a little too much wine. Alone. In the middle of the night. No, its really not like I make it sound). Its not complete, but I think they stand well on their own. Part 2 will be up shortly, I have to type it and edit it and spell check it. I have just one thing to ask: I really am looking to better my writing- I'm an amateur and I know I'm not the best. So please, be picky about the technical details! I really would like to benefit from the comments! (January 22, 2006: Revised and respellchecked!)

-Summoner Skye


	2. Breaking

**Bend and Break**

by Summoner Skye

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and everything related is copyright by JK Rowling, Warner Brothers, and other scary corporations that I really would rather not get involved with. Bend and Break is copyright by Keane.

**Part 2: Breaking**

The house was dark.

The living room was empty, strewn with remains from the party. A half empty bottle of wine sat on the coffee table amid cups and flowers and candles. Streamers hung from the ceiling, looking dejected in the darkness.

Hermione listened. It was quiet, too. The music had ended and everyone had either left or found their way to their rooms.

Everyone but Hermione.

Harry and Ginny had gone up the stairs together, hand-in-hand. Hermione had seen them go into Ginny's room together. And she did not think he would be leaving tonight.

That left Hermione here, in the living room, sleeping alone on the couch.

She kicked off her shoes and trudged to the bathroom. Her bare feet were silent against the aged wood; the soft green fabric of her dress whispered around her knees.

Hermione regarded herself in the crooked mirror. She no longer felt beautiful. Now Ginny's rouges and paints seemed gaudy in the stark light of the bathroom. She turned on the sink and scrubbed her face in the freezing water.

Blinking through the dripping water, Hermione again judged her reflection. She still had mascara smeared beneath her eyes, stark against her pale skin; skin, she now noticed, that took on a sickly hue against the pastel green of her dress.

Hermione rubbed at her eyes again. Why, she wondered, wasn't she doing this by magic? Why, after six years, did it not always come as first nature? But… no, her wand was in her room. Ginny had said to leave it, that she wouldn't need it. Ginny had said to enjoy herself, to forget, just for tonight.

She began to pull the pins out of her hair. The curls had begun to frizz and it was losing its shape. When her hair had all fallen down it lay at odd angles to her head, fluffed and smoothed in accordance to how the pins and sprays had held it in place. She considered brushing it, but decided against it.

"You are beautiful." Hermione told her reflection. She turned out the light.

A search of the cupboards proved how full the house was—all the spare blankets and pillows had been taken. Without her wand, Hermione couldn't do anything about that.

She sat down on the couch.

She vaguely considered going upstairs and taking the bedding from Harry's bed, which she knew must be unoccupied. But, no. Ron was up there, and Hermione had no desire to see _him_ again tonight.

Hermione closed her eyes and tipped her head back, resting it against the warm oversized couch.

Why did everything her so _much_?

Maybe her heart was breaking.

Maybe it was just the combination of grief, stress, and a little too much butterbeer that was making her feel this way.

Maybe… Hermione couldn't think. But everything, _everything_, struck another blow towards her heart. Every word that Ron didn't speak, any small kindness lost. Harry and Ginny and how they were so damned meant-to-be. Every motherly act from Mrs. Weasley, reminding Hermione of her own mother shed seen so little of these past years.

Tears welled in her eyes, and Hermione angrily rubbed them away. Wasn't there anything she could do anymore but cry?

Hermione regarded the bottle of wine.

The clock struck once. The half hour. Half past four, or five?

Hermione picked up the bottle, then laughed at herself. Hermione Granger, budding alcoholic? The late hour and butterbeers gave the idea merit. She took a swig.

She didn't know much about wine (one of the few things, she thought, she could say that about), but it was good and it took the edge off her pain.

Ron, she decided, was a bastard. Not worth her time. If he couldn't get it through his fat head how she felt— No. He was worth her time.

She drank a little more of the wine.

Because she was in love with him.

Hermione was willing to blame this on the alcohol, but the thought wasnt accompanied by the usual peals of thunder and blind terror. Now it made sense. Even after this disaster of an evening. It… was a good thing?

Hermione stared at the bottle in her hand, now seriously depleted. Maybe she should do this more often.

She kicked her feet up on the coffee table, admiring Ginny's nail polish. Her eyes trailed up her bare legs, to the fluffy green skirts. Well, maybe she didn't look _so_ bad. She ran her fingers through her hair, working out the tangles and smoothing the curls.

Behind her, there was a creak at the stair.

Hermione sat upright, suddenly ashamed with herself. She turned around and sought the figure out of the shadows. Her eyes, with difficulty, focused.

Ron.

A familiar emotion rose in Hermione's chest, that bittersweet mixture that always assaulted her when he was near.

His hair was tousled and he was yawning as he stepped off the last stair. He was wearing those awful pyjamas Hermione knew too well, the blazing orange ones that didn't come down past his ankles. He stretched, and his shirt pulled up a little—Hermione turned back around. She did her best to quietly set the now nearly empty bottle down, but suddenly she noticed her hands were shaking, and the bottle found its way to the table with a good deal more noise than she had intended.

The ongoing yawn behind her was stifled.

Then: "Hermione?"

Hermione slowly turned around again and feigned surprise. "Ron!" Then nothing. Her mind wouldn't work, no words would come. She clasped her shaking hands in her lap. The wine that had earlier freed her thoughts now clouded them. The room was spinning slowly.

Ron had walked over to the couch and was now staring at her over its back. "What are you doing down here?"

Hermione considered the answer for a moment. "Couldn't sleep."

She saw Ron notice her dress and dirty hair. He had a queer expression on his face. Then he wrinkled his nose. Hermione drew in her breath, and held it.

"Are you… drunk?" He asked, voicing the final syllable incredulously.

Hermione closed her eyes and rested here had against the cusions. They were soft, and provided comfort. "I think so."

Silence. He's gone, she thought, gone back upstairs because I'm stupid and drunk and… and in love with him. Shit! Why did it hurt again? Don't cry, she willed. _Don't cry_!

Then she felt herself falling slightly to the right, and the quiet sound of breathing.

Hermione opened her eyes, and found Ron's, pale in the dark room. In the moonlight she could see each and every freckle. He was so beautiful.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she screwed her eyes shut again. No, the wine hadn't been a good idea.

Ron cleared his throat. "A-are you okay? Hermione?"

Every syllable of her name, soft and distinct, suddenly beautiful on his voice. She decided to be honest. "No." she said, embarrassed at the thickness of her voice.

"Me neither." Ron sounded surprised at his answer.

Hermione opened her eyes. Two tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. She wiped them away.

Ron had turned away, looking at something on the other side of the room. Hermione studied his profile, the long slanting lines that defined his nose and forehead, the surprising roundness of his lips, the way his eyebrows had drawn together.

Hermione couldn't speak. There was nothing she could shape into words. Nothing to say while they still had this great void stretching between them. But her heart pounded and she knew her face was red and… There was nothing to say. And still she cried, great fat tears that rolled slowly down her face, salty when she caught them at the corners of her mouth. Thankfully—and she could think this—she didn't sob, or gasp, or shake. She simply cried. With astonishment she saw matching drops find their way out of _Ron's_ eyes, to be hastily wiped away.

And there was nothing to say. So they sat, her knees inches away from his thighs, heads resting against the couch.

The clock struck. Six loud, deep reverberating beats that echoed through the dark house.

Hermione started. Had she been asleep? Dozing? Her face was tiff with dried tears. As she lifted her head she could feel the contours of the couch dented into her cheek. Ron was looking at here. She rubbed her face. Her legs had fallen asleep. She eased them out from under her, wincing at the sharp pains.

Hermione noted absently that her head had cleared a bit already. The room no longer spun. She looked towards Ron and briefly met his eyes, then turned away.

"Why are you down here?" she asked. Something to say.

He was quiet for a moment. "I was looking for Harry."

Hermione was silent.

"But," She looked at him and he looked at her, seeing her dress and knowing what it meant, "I think I know where he is."

This was a different boy than the one he had been only a year ago, Hermione realized. Even a few months before he never would have tolerated even the idea of… _that_, but now he was accepting and quiet and didn't even look angry. Last month had taken a lot of the… _Ron_ out of him. She'd changed as well. Imagine, Hermione Granger, sitting alone and getting drunk in the middle of the night.

She made a noise—a laugh, a grunt, a sob. She didn't know.

Ron was still looking at her. Then he turned, and stood up.

"I'm going back to bed. Do you want to come?"

Hermione's breath caught in her throat.

"I mean, uh," he coughed, "you can sleep in Harry's bed."

"No." She said. "Thanks."

"Um, okay then. Good night."

"Good night."

Hermione resisted the urge to turn and watch him go up the stairs. Instead she laid down and tried to arrange herself comfortably.

Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten.

She was just drifting off to sleep when Ron came back down, a comforter heaped in his arms.

Hermione murmured her thanks as he spread it over her.

He may have kissed her on the forehead, she wasn't sure.

But then he was gone, and Hermione was left with nothing but a Chudley Cannons comforter and a vague feeling that though nothing had happened, something had.

_Meet me in the morning when you wake up,_

_Meet me in the morning then you'll wake up."_

- Keane, _Bend and Break

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A/N: Its good to finally have this finished. What actually happened at the wedding? Um… we'll just say that Ron was his usual self to Hermione. So… please review? Constructive criticism, please? Thanks much.

- Summoner Skye


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